


tight spots

by dreadwoof



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, happy birthday terezke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 09:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10487661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadwoof/pseuds/dreadwoof
Summary: Set some time after the events of Trespasser, Dorian finds himself in a closet of the magisterium with his ex-Inquisitor boyfriend.





	

His hands fumble with the keys as echoes of distant steps draw dangerously near, closer and closer, almost there and-- the click of a lock.

* * *

 

A roguish shadow greets his senses, wrapping around him until he's forced to slip inside. His feet stumble in the darkness and his robes weigh like chains until it dawns on him that he's ill-equipped for this adventure. The outfit which stunned an entire row of magisters into silence this morning now simply seems like a moronic decision draped over his shoulders as he delicately tries not to trip over it.

A curse dies in his throat suddenly, for arms that can't be anyone’s except  _his_  wrap around him with ease, one side too tight and the other too sharp – _stunted and cut too short,_ _yet the pain is oh so welcome and sweet_  – and like a scholar touching his favourite book, Dorian knows it’s Aien, as the mouth that whispered urgent orders through a crystal only seconds before, is suddenly planting broken kisses on the corners of his lips.

"Not here, not here, please."

"Amatus," he repeats, begging yet beckoning for more as his own hands now – _traitorous things_ – are already sliding in the welcoming softness that is the Inquisitor's hair. He has lost this battle, and it is shamefully apparent.

"I could only spare this hour," he hears him explain, a breathless voice that sounds deeply apologetic for some odd, inexplicable reason which Dorian doesn't hear, not when his body and brain are both struck numb and dumb by the deep shivers caused from a hand slipping underneath his robes. He reacts instantly, fingers sliding further into the chaos of his hair and _pulling_.

"You're growing your it out," he remarks, throat dry. He can't find it within himself to wait for a reply, as he decides to pay attention to a favoured spot of his on his lover's neck. With parted lips and closed eyes, he leans down and proceeds to miss the target, as his mouth smacks the scarf wrapped around him – _is that incense he smells?_ – the trademark, years-past-its-use fabric that caused him second-hand embarrassment when things were brand new and strange between them. Now, he thinks with mock regret, the sight of it only makes his heart do a giddy, pathetic little dance at the sight of it.

"So hasty, Pavus," he chides himself, clearing his tongue loudly.

"Can't blame you."

He leans back in and presses the tip of his tongue on the line of Aien’s throat. Then paves a path down until he’s slapped away.

"I'm not," Aien breathes out, cheeks delightfully red. "Growing it out."

Reaching up, Dorian parts the shock of white to the other side, unable to help the smirk.

"Lying suits you so ill, amatus," he purrs, lips curving. “You forgot to shave, didn’t you.”

A pause.

”Did I?”

He puts his own hand over Aien’s mouth, shushing for silence, even as his own laughter threatens to rumble from his chest. He can almost hear the whisperings of every altus in town at the back of his spine. Yet the slivers of future worries and sounds dissipate as Dorian finds himself simply not caring, not when he’s faced with the such remarkable kindness and wit of his Inquisitor.

He presses their foreheads together, suddenly stuck staring at the contrast of an obsidian ring around his finger and Aien’s plump lips.

They start moving but Dorian doesn’t hear, caught in a loop of _what ifs_ that almost make him groan.

A pale hand trembling with nervous energy reaches up and cups the side of his face, makes his jaw and cheek burn at the sensation, and then he does groan, rendered speechless by this brief but brutal attack. The deep kiss that comes after is what ends them both, made apparent by the involuntary moan he lets loose. After months of nothing, it doubtlessly sounds as romantic or as quiet as a nug in heat.

"It honestly  _did_ slip my mind, you know," Aien blurts out, breaking the kiss as well as his thoughts.

"Along with other things?"

He treasures the smile that suddenly cracks his lover's frown, chest swelling with silent triumph. He puts his lips on it, for safe keeping.

"I've missed you," he hears Aien’s muffled words slip out.

Oh.

He grins.

"Well. That’s an understatement. According to my sources, you've lusted for me, Inquisitor," he says, gently smothering the sudden blush with another row of kisses, a fierce shade of pink formed beneath freckles like sunlight through a cracked window. Dorian breathes him in – rain and mint and the root he used to climb over mountains in the dusk to pick – remains so terribly different than Tevinter that it makes his mind fog with memories.

"Have you thought about what I said?" Aien asks.

Dorian gives an approving hum. Then tries to kiss his lover's words away, aided by the slight, completely accidental shove towards the wall. But his plans backfire again and they're both find themselves further squeezed between a metaphorical and physical corner. Simply bloody luck that it happens to be inside a closet of a magisterium.

"And? Did you investigate the city?"

Dorian flicks the point of his ear, and nods. A romantic tryst wasn't the reason for this visit, then. It’s Solas.

"Though I can't give you a satisfying answer,” he explains, consciously keeping his face neutral. “Mae and I find ourselves tangled up in the middle of a trial. Foreign assassins, stranded oxmen, unofficial blood mages, what have you. The usual nasty business of a rotting empire," he pauses. "I'm sorry."

As expected, he receives nothing more than a kind and terrible look of understanding. The warm hand on his neck falls back to the owner's side.

“It is what it is,” Aien offers, backing up until he hits something and jumps. Dorian wonders if this is how it feels to have a giant squeeze your heart out.

"Clumsy fool. You'll break my gift to the archon," Dorian warns, wondering if this is how it feels to have your heart squeezed out by a giant. He’s mournfully aware of the curiosity this statement will spark, but not until he allows himself to steal a soundly, final kiss from Aien. To last him for the months that follow.

"Oh?" Genuine wonder shines in Aien's eyes. His head snaps back to gaze at the polished, reflective surface of an eluvian, wrapped around the wings of a black marbled dragon. " _Oh_.”

"What a handsome couple," Dorian adds, winking at the reflection.

The Inquisitor’s face splits into a rare grin.

"Truly."


End file.
